Shaun Turner



All of my midnight hurt for three years—
sweaty, in convenience stores,
visiting the fee-free ATM
as if it were some shrine—
and maybe the midnights still hurt
and will always hurt, light
like something forgotten.

What do you do
when the body wants?

Little bags, then gasping breath.
Crunchy potatoes and pop,
orange dust and M&Ms,
can line a hand like time.

I used to know a man
who'd ride each day.
He still had a pink
tender heart, then. A tender head,
a loose tongue, youth drunk.

What do you do
when the body gives up its ghost?

I used to know a man
who built a nest
out of the things
he could remember:
some big hands, and
coarse hair
and hipbone,
Dial soap and


He never knew how to name them.

Poetry can act in so many ways. I hope that by adding one more voice to the collective community of writers and poets in this issue, that our collective sound will be made even stronger and even more resonate.

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